War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5

by Lynne Connolly

  Then she saw it. A spark of red, like a flame, extinguished quickly. “There he is!” She knew what it was. Footprints of fire, sparkling in the sunlight, as clear as day now she saw them. “He must have removed his shoes. When he touches the ground…”

  A short distance from the first glowing mark, they found the second. Then a third, but they were fading fast. Ruth picked up her skirts, heedless of modesty, and ran. Her new shoes pinched and she longed for her old, comfortable pair, the barely healed cuts from her journey through the forest opening up and blood seeping out to squelch uncomfortably when she ran. She carried on, rounding a bend and coming to a sudden halt.

  “Barnabas!” shrieked Lady Damaris. “Put him down!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dizzy from having the giant’s hand wrapped around his throat, Marcus could still gasp in fear when he saw Ruth. He meant the trail for d’Argento. What had the bastard been thinking, bringing her here to face this madman? That was what he wanted. Barnabas, was it?

  Marcus’s feet dangled in midair, but he tried not to choke or kick. That would only make matters worse. He could not die from disease, and he could heal from serious injury, but he doubted he could recover from having his head snapped off.

  The hell of it was, his strength seemed to be gone. The initial attack had taken him by surprise, and by then the giant wrapped him in what felt like fine chain. Except when he tried to break away all he did was cut himself, to the bone. Struggling only made the injuries worse. The man must be an immortal, because the ichor that poured from his wounds did not affect the attacker in the least.

  Pain wracked him, radiating from the places the chain touched his bare skin and the slices already cut into it, but despite the lack of life-sustaining ichor, Marcus refused to give in, refused to slip away into unconsciousness.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw the thread, ragged and cut, but there. It would break and then he would die. She might die too. The link was so new Marcus did not know how it worked, whether they were linked in mortality or heart-to-heart. He prayed, sent her a message, though he didn’t know if she got it. Don’t die. Don’t let him take you.

  A woman screamed something, and the giant turned his head, intensifying his hold on Marcus as if afraid to lose him. Vaguely, Marcus recognised the voice. Lady Damaris. “Drop it, Barnabas!”

  Realisation dawned. Barnabas was the brother to Lady Damaris. If he did not escape this giant soon, Marcus would die. Just when he had discovered so much to live for.

  Death had tempted him at certain times in his life. When he discovered his mother’s true nature, for instance, or when he had lost Virginie. Why did it happen now, when he had so much to live for?

  The giant bellowed, words discernible in the noise. “Nerine said I could do this. Said she wanted him. I was only bringing him to her. She likes the sea, so she’ll come.” He gestured to the Thames, forcing another slice from Marcus’s abused flesh. “She wants a pet, and he said no. So I brought him.”

  The words were carefully enunciated, but lacked emphasis in the right places. He sounded like a person with limited intellect. Perhaps he was. Whatever he was, he was also an immortal. A dangerous immortal, not least because of his limitations. Should Marcus pretend to be unconscious, or should he speak? He couldn’t do nothing, especially with his love standing before him, her hands clapped to her mouth in horror.

  “Let me go, Barnabas.”

  With a roar, the monster turned to his captive. In one deft movement, he looped the end of the chain around Marcus’s throat. The sharp edges dug into his skin, and warmth trickled down to his chest.

  Well, that worked.

  Blood edged Ruth’s hand where she’d bitten down and Marcus winced for her. He had sworn not to cause her any more pain and here he was, breaking his promise again. Despite having repeatedly tried to use the powers of his mind, at least for communication, Marcus forced another effort, but it was as useless as before. The chain must possess powers he could not combat. All he had left was his human strength, and all he could do was watch the woman he loved suffer.

  D’Argento glanced up, but Marcus could not see what he saw. To turn his head would mean death.

  Then d’Argento spoke aloud. “We have one course left. This could kill you, Marcus. Will you take the risk?”

  “Yes.”

  D’Argento nodded and glanced up to where Lady Nerine stood on the pier. Grabbing Ruth, he swung her against his chest and slapped his hands over his ears.

  A scream arose, so high and shrill that it sawed through his head. Loud noises tended to revolve, but this one didn’t—it took the shortest way through.

  Then it abruptly stopped. He plummeted to earth, unable to save himself. He was dead. It was over.

  * * * * *

  Ruth broke away from d’Argento, her ears ringing with the terrible noise Nerine emitted. She raced to Marcus, dragging away the thin, dull-grey chains that bound him. One cut her, so she wrapped her hand in her skirts and continued to drag them off him. As she tugged, they shattered into separate links, scattering around them and sinking into the loose sandy soil. The first to go was the one around his neck, the one that terrified her most. Her skirts were stained with his blood, and smears covered her hands from the cuts on his neck.

  He was breathing. His chest heaved with the effort. Blood poured from his wounds.

  He opened his eyes, and his grey eyes, usually dark, now silver, his pupils bare pinpoints, gazed into hers. “I love you,” he said, his voice cracked. More blood leaked from his throat.

  “Oh, don’t speak! I know you do, I love you too, but rest, be still.”

  He glanced down to where their hands were clasped. With a convulsive shove, he tried to loose her hand. “Ichor!”

  “My grazes have healed.” She glanced at her hand, where she’d bitten it and where the thorn from the rose had pricked it, then at him, and shrugged. “What’s a little blood?”

  “It’s ichor, not blood. It will poison you.”

  Barnabas stood, head lowered, rigidly inactive, and then, like a great tree in the forest, he fell forward, on to his face. Instinctively Ruth flung her body over Marcus’s, but Barnabas toppled over, crashing to the ground a scarce foot from where they lay.

  While the vibrations were still rumbling, d’Argento raced over, cursing in several different languages, spitting the words out. “I’m lifting you both, taking you back,” he said, and suited actions to his words.

  Ruth welcomed the awful whirling, all her thoughts fixed on Marcus. Now he was free of his bonds, she could link his mind with his. He was barely conscious, but alive. They landed on the bed in her room at the Pantheon.

  Ruth scrambled off Marcus and nearly fell to the floor, but she had his hand in hers, and she refused to let go. Her hoop sprang up, probably exposing everything, but she cared nothing for that, merely pushing it as clear as she could. She could not remove it with one hand, but she moved it to the back, so she could stay close to Marcus.

  He was still watching her. Don’t worry.

  How can I not? Answering him mind-to-mind appeared natural, not something she needed to think about. Lie still, my love. Rest.

  I can’t hear.

  She stared at him, uncomprehending.

  I’m deaf.

  She looked up to where d’Argento, now stripped of his coat, was leaning over him. “He says he’s deaf.”

  “I feared as much. I never realised what kind of immortal Nerine was. Now I do.”

  “What?”

  “She’s a siren. They can lure men with beautiful singing, or they can kill them with a scream.” He glanced at her. “We have more to worry about. That thorn from this morning—it could kill you. It meant you absorbed a few drops of ichor. Very soon you will feel cold, and then we will see.”

  “What?”

  D’Argento bit his lip, then
nodded tersely. “The contact will do one of two things. Either it will make you an immortal, or it will kill you. You will start the change soon.”

  She appreciated that he told her the truth. “Is there anything you can do?”

  “Not if the process has begun.”

  She shook her head. “In that case it isn’t me you need to care for.”

  “It’s both of you. I must do what I can to help you both.”

  Whether she was listening too hard to him or he invoked the response, she shivered. Despite the bright, sunny day, a chill ran through her, under her skin, down to the bone.

  “Lie down. I’m a healer, a physician. I’ll do everything I can, but the process is out of my hands.”

  Marcus turned his head and looked at her. A tear trickled out of the corner of his eye. What did he say?

  I need to lie here and help you.

  He looked further into her mind. She could not stop it. Closing his eyes, he shook his head. You have to live.

  D’Argento rolled his sleeves up and got to work. He stripped Marcus by the simple expedient of producing a knife from his breeches’ pocket and slicing off his wedding finery. Most of it was in ribbons from those cutting cords. One question came to mind. “Why did he not get rid of the chains? They were no finer than necklaces.”

  “They were made to capture immortals,” d’Argento said briefly. “Do you want the truth?”

  “Always.”

  “I can cure Marcus, but what happens to you is entirely in the lap of the gods.” He tugged the last rags from Marcus’s body. He lay there, powerfully naked, the small cuts bleeding profusely. None spurted, though.

  “I thought ichor was clear?” She had read about it in her lonely hours spent in her room and in the library of Marcus’s house, never realising she would have a practical demonstration one day.

  “We’re taught early in life to make it appear red. It’s an illusion, but it’s one almost inborn in most of us.” D’Argento touched a wound, a particularly deep one. “I will begin the healing process on the deepest cuts. The others will take care of themselves.” He glanced up at Marcus, who was still awake, still paying attention to Ruth and nobody else. “After I’ve done that, I think we’ll have time. I sent a message as we came in.”

  A knock came on the door and at d’Argento’s brief “Come!” Lightfoot entered with another man in tow. The vicar who was to have married them. He carried his prayer book. Time for last rites, she assumed, probably for both of them.

  “Do you still want to marry?” d’Argento said, out loud and into their minds.

  The answer came any way they knew. “Yes!” Both together, a mutual decision made at the same time.

  D’Argento glanced at the priest. “Go around to the other side of the bed. I’m busy here.” Glancing down, he threw the bedcover over Marcus’s lower parts, sparing the cleric’s blushes.

  Ruth scrambled off the bed, reached under her skirts and dragged the bow of the drawstring from her hoops undone. When they fell to the floor, she stepped over them and climbed back to Marcus. All without taking her gaze from his. He watched her, and damn him, he was smiling.

  “I will not marry you with everything on display,” she said, tucking the swathes of skirts around her legs.

  The vicar tutted as he walked around the bed to the head. “I take it this is in extremis?”

  “Somewhat,” d’Argento said. He did not hide what he was doing, which was nothing like what a mortal physician would do. He was placing his hands over the cuts, waiting, and then moving on. When he moved his hands away the cut was healing, the blood staunched.

  We are together, my love, Marcus said, but I want this legal. D’Argento will fight for you.

  You will fight for us both. Ruth would hear of nothing else. All the banked-down ferocity from the years of sitting disregarded and ignored welled up and burst forth. You will not give in, Marcus, do you hear me? She couldn’t feel her feet any more. Her limbs had gone so cold she was convulsively shivering, and pains shot around her body, as if someone had stuck icicles into her.

  “Dearly beloved…” the vicar began.

  Since he could not hear, Ruth told Marcus when to respond, put the words into his mind and watched him repeat them. He gazed at her the whole time he was speaking them, his voice rumbling through her, only the odd stumble revealing his new deafness. Even though they were both in pain, this was the high point of her life, the most joyful moment she’d ever experienced.

  “With my body I thee worship,” he said, slowly and carefully, and she knew he meant every word. So did she, when she repeated it back to him.

  They signed the book, d’Argento and Lightfoot witnessed the ceremony, and then they were done. She had d’Argento’s signet ring on her finger, she’d received nothing but a quick peck on the lips because by the time the cleric was done, she was shivering all over.

  Until she burned.

  By then she was married.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Marcus’s beloved began her married life lying in sweat-sodden garments, lying on a blood-soaked bed with a naked man. She could not foresee that in a million years. This morning’s quiet though beautiful ceremony had become a grotesque parody of itself, although Marcus barely noticed. Only Ruth mattered.

  Occasionally d’Argento spoke to him mentally, ordering him to lie this way and that, to turn, to roll on his front. Because Ruth grew distressed if he didn’t do as he was told, Marcus let d’Argento do his work. He cared nothing for that, because Ruth was dying.

  He watched her bravery, did everything he could to support her, even crooning her name, although he could no longer hear himself.

  She still has a chance. Conversion can be hard on some. You must take great care of her.

  She is the most important person in my life, Marcus growled back. I would hardly do anything else, would I? If she passes over the river Styx, I will go with her. If you want to pursue your quest, you’d better be quick about it.

  I will see to you first. Then you may look after her.

  D’Argento took far too long, but eventually declared himself satisfied. Your body will take care of the rest itself. Lightfoot will take you to another room. Do not try to carry her yourself; you will open the cuts again. He pushed his fair hair off his forehead, having discarded his wig long ago. It was darkened with sweat, and he was far from the elegantly dressed male of earlier in the day. In fact, his godhead was showing. He wore shirtsleeves and breeches, and moved so lightly across the floor he could be gliding above it.

  Marcus appreciated the quiet. Ruth had fallen asleep, her breasts rising and falling gently. He was slowly undressing her, piece by piece since he could not perform even the simplest of tasks very long without tiring. She lay in a nest of discarded, bloodstained clothing. Most of the blood was his ichor, tainted red because he willed it so, by habit more than design, but she had taken enough into her system for it to kill her. Or not. Too late to do the test; she would either live or die. He refused to allow d’Argento to perform it now, because it didn’t matter. He would share her state, whatever that was.

  When Lightfoot re-entered the room and nodded, Marcus had enough strength to climb out of bed, although not enough to carry her. D’Argento performed that task for him. Night had fallen, although Marcus was no longer sure which night, whether one or two days had passed. From the look of d’Argento’s red-rimmed eyes and tightly compressed mouth, as well as his unaccustomed lack of grace when he picked Ruth up, Marcus would say two days.

  Stopping only to wrap a linen cloth around his nether regions, in case they met a maid or even a fellow guest, he padded after them as Lightfoot took them a short way to another room. When he regained his strength, he would take her home, but for now, all his concentration remained on keeping her alive.

  He was still deaf, but that was a small consideration. He would gla
dly give up one of his senses if it meant she would live. He would gain so much more.

  Lightfoot indicated a tray with covered dishes lying on the table in the new room. He’d taken them to a suite at the back of the house, presumably quieter. D’Argento spoke to him, mind-to-mind. Eat, then rest. If she wakes, make sure she drinks first before eating. Give her your strength, and rest. I will give you all I own.

  Thank you.

  They left him. Marcus did not take his eyes off her all the time he ate. After, he slid into bed next to her, ensured she was tucked in warmly, and waited. He would wait for the rest of his life, if he must. “Don’t die,” he whispered. “Live for me.”

  Shocked, he repeated his words. A faint echo came back to him.

  When d’Argento returned, he stood, arms folded, at the foot of the bed. “I did the test,” he said. “I needed to know how to treat this situation, so it was important.”

  “What was it?” Marcus demanded. “If you’ve done it, then you might as well tell me.”

  D’Argento’s gaze went from Marcus to Ruth and back. “You truly love her, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. Who would not?” Ignoring d’Argento’s silent, though eloquent response when he raised his brows, he turned to take Ruth’s hand.

  She will live, d’Argento said. Although she has taken it hard. Conversion is not always easy, and sometimes results are not what we expect.

  * * * * *

  If Ruth imagined a gentle and romantic awakening, she was in for a severe disappointment. Instead, a full-throated bellow of “Live for me!” rang in her skull, swiftly followed by a yelled, “Come back!”

  Grumbling, she put out a hand and met hot, male flesh. A muscle rippled under her hand. “Do you need to shout?” she queried as she opened her eyes. “Oh, now you’re laughing! So I’m funny, am I?”

  His arms went around her and he pulled her close. “You are wonderful, my love.”

  She closed her eyes tightly and opened them again. There he was, smiling, and not a mark on him. “You’re alive!”